


The One With All the Songs

by Leviosally468



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ...but he doesn't know it yet, ...cuz Jaskier needs one too, ...for like 30 seconds, 5+1 Things, A LOT of fucking songs, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, CJ major Geralt, Classical Music, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, First Time, Five Stages of Grief, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt is a fucking vision, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Gods what is happening, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Inspired by Music, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mild GeraltXYennefer, Modern Music, Music major Jaskier, Musical References, Self-Indulgent, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, There are songs..., cannon-typical use of the word ‘fuck’, just go with me on this..., music is the same in every language, they say ‘fuck’ alot?, totally self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24473917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviosally468/pseuds/Leviosally468
Summary: The fact remained that the second Jaskier’s eyes had taken stock of his flaxen hair, pulled haphazardly into what his fellows jokingly referred to as a ‘man-bun’; his bright golden eyes, in which he could have happily drowned; and the way his black jeans hugged what should have been an illegal stretch of hard muscle had Jaskier second guessing his resolve not to stand in the hallway belting out REO Speedwagon’s ‘Keep on Loving You’ at the top of his voice.OR, 5 times Jaskier uses the stages of grief to deal with his unrequited feelings for the handsome, chiseled upper classman in the dorm next to his via his love for music, +1 time he might find himself proven wrong…in all the right ways.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 171





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anarchycox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchycox/gifts).



> Fuck.  
> Okay...I've been dying to write these idiots in a modAU forever now and this is the best my music major brain could dredge up after enough caffeine to drop a bull and the hopeless fact that literally every song I listen to, classical or otherwise, has me feelin' some kinda way ‘bout this ship...So I figured 'why not?'...Geralt got a 5+1, so here is what I hope is not a train-wreck for Jaskier.
> 
> Dedicated to anarchycox, who's mind-fuckingly perfect layers of crack and smut never cease to amaze me.

‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers—  
That perches in the soul—  
That sings the tune without the words—  
And never stops—At all—  
\- Emily Dickenson

1\. Though classical guitar had started as a rather necessary relationship; stuffed down his throat under the guise of a ‘proper and well-rounded music education’, Jaskier had found his comfort with it, dare he admit, _love_ for the hauntingly elegant melodies his nimble fingers pull from comparatively soft nylon strings. 

He plucks them with more care than usual, he closes his eyes as Satie’s Gymnopedies encase him in a dulcet trance. 

He would be performing the work in front of his peers on Monday and hours of long practice had made it so his fingers had come to know the path of the notes without the need of his eyes or the written page. 

It was a far-cry from the usual grungy, earthy, folk-steeped, post-mod sounds of what his room-mate described as the bastard love-child of Loreena McKennitt and Nickle Creek that he dutifully ground out every Friday at Fil’s Bar, but there was a simple beauty in classical music. It reminded him of why he had chosen his major…it had the power to say so many things words couldn’t. 

He feels his heart rate quicken as his fingers whisper through the chords, allowing them to ring into the rare silence of his room, and he can almost feel the way the notes slither over his flesh, leaving goosebumps in their wake.  


Had the Frenchman sought to please the cries of his own masses? Knowingly affecting feelings of lust, longing and pain with the melodies that flowed from his quill so many years ago? Or was his inspiration rooted entirely in self-indulgence? Jaskier wonders briefly what sort of mark _his_ music will leave on the world, if any…and more than this he muses about the feeling music leaves him with as he allows his head to thump back against the wall with a sigh. 

206 has been predictably silent for the last hour. He turns so that his ear is pressed against the rough drywall and strains for any kind of sound. Maybe there’s the dull roar of a TV being flipped on, and maybe there’s the tell-tale skittering of fingers over a laptop keyboard, and just maybe there’s the sound of a bottle thunking down, and _maybe_ Jaskier finds himself wondering what those fingers would do were they to _skitter_ over _his_ flesh. He wonders if 206 heard him playing…he rather _hopes_ he did…

Gods, he had a problem….And whilst he had made it his personal crusade to eventually divine 206’s actual identity, the fact remained that the second Jaskier’s eyes had taken stock of his flaxen hair, pulled haphazardly into what his fellows jokingly referred to as a ‘man-bun’; his bright golden eyes, in which he could have happily drowned; and the way his black jeans hugged what should have been an _illegal_ stretch of hard muscle had Jaskier second guessing his resolve not to stand in the hallway belting out REO Speedwagon’s ‘Keep on Loving You’ at the top of his voice. 

He exhales heavily, swinging his legs over the side of his twin and settles his guitar onto a sturdy pair of pegs screwed into the wall alongside his mandolin. Floorspace was something of a precious commodity in his current situation, so he had been forced to think vertically. He scrubs a hand through his hair as his headspace swirls with flashbacks of three days prior; a day that may as well be considered ‘fateful’ in Jaskier’s opinion for it was now the day against which all subsequent days (or more importantly, potential suitors) would be measured…

… … …. … … ….

_…Some lively partita from some guy named Bach from some ungodly long time ago whistled through Jaskier’s lips as he readjusted the basket of laundry perched on his hip. The damn catchy thing had been rolling through his head on repeat for the past hour, post music history 101, which, in Jaskier’s humble opinion had served as nothing more than an excuse for the entire violin section to complain loudly about how they thought their fingers might bleed at the mere mention of the words ‘Bach’ and ‘chaconne’ in the same sentence. Jaskier rolled his eyes; he had played through most of the guitar transcriptions and thought bitterly that if the primas spent more time practicing and less time fucking their stand partners, the point would be moot._

__

__

_And that was when it happened. He had swung the basket in front of him, which in hindsight was really a stupid thing to have done, rounded a corner and run smack into something tall, solid, and very much alive judging by the surprised ‘hmph!’ that sounded in his ears. With a squeak, he dropped the accursed thing and jumped back with a gasp.  
_

_“S-sorry—” He began, but whatever else he had lined up in his mind to follow was utterly blown away as his eyes took in the figure before him, a fucking vision in a black leather jacket and perfectly tailored jeans. They weren’t skinny…skinny jeans were for tacky, poser skater bois and were just as likely to show too much of a bad thing (the rumpled, worn, pucker of garish batman patterned boxer briefs for one) as anything good. The sheer real estate of muscle contained within his well-fitting garments had Jaskier wondering if perhaps he wouldn’t have been more at home sleeping above the campus rec center. His hair was so light it almost had a silver glow to it and though Jaskier could tell it had been hastily tied back, it still managed to give the illusion that the man had spent many careful moments teasing and tugging in all the right places until it radiated a purposeful haphazardness. His face looked as though it had been quite literally chiseled from marble; pale and angular. His eyes were exceptionally unique; a deep, hazy gold...rich and burnished as though they held all the wisdom and knowledge of great age even though he couldn’t be very much older than Jaskier himself. Realizing he had been staring like an idiot past the point of even being considered mildly too long, he cleared his throat loudly and squatted down to retrieve his laundry; suddenly and strangely relieved that his underwear hadn’t managed to make a showing. The god-like stranger stood quietly for a few moments before stooping and catching up a pair of Jaskier’s trousers and passing them to him, and Jaskier wondered briefly if those golden eyes possessed X-ray capabilities.  
  
“Don’t worry about it.” He said finally in a voice that was rough and a raspy and thick the way Jaskier’s own sounded after a long night of singing at the bar. It was raw and hoarse and whiskey-soaked like a rusted garden rake being drug through weathered gravel. It made his head swim and his insides lurch. ‘Tall-pale-and-unfairly-handsome’ collected his bike helmet (of course he rides a fucking motorcycle) from the scrubby floor whos carpet sported the battle scars and stains of far too many years of piss-drunk frat boys and extended his hand to Jaskier who willed his fingers not to shudder as he took it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.  
  
“This is Kaedwen Hall, right?” The man who should have been standing for a GQ photo shoot instead of standing in this shit hallway asked.  
  
“Yeah.” Jaskier replied, swallowing thickly…gods…  
  
“Point me to 206?” And Jaskier did, tongue working overtime to summon a hint of moisture back into his mouth. Words had always been there for him; like an old reliable friend he could always count on for comfort and support, yet there he stood; in the middle of the hall with quite possibly the most beautiful human being he had ever laid eyes on and words had chosen this moment to pack their bags, leaving their divorce papers on the proverbial counter of his medial pre-frontal cortex and had left _him_ …lips working soundlessly, to gesture like a Neanderthal down the left fork of the hallway behind them. 206 cocked an eyebrow at him, a twitch of a smile in the corner of his perfect…kissable…lips… _fuck_ …was it hot in this hallway?  
  
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll…run into you again sometime.”  
Jaskier hoped his roommate had a mop…to wipe up the puddle his body now made on the floor…_

… … …. … … ….  
Jaskier snaps to as the lock clicks over and a minute later Valdo trudges in, dumping his keys and wallet onto the small entry table and puffing an exasperated sigh.  
  
“Rough day?” Jaskier asks empathetically; Valdo works at the campus coffee shop as a work-study.  
  
“If Professor ‘licks-her-own-asshole’ De Vries complains one more time about her grande, quad shot, non-fat, low foam, extra carmel, extra hot, cherry-on-top-if-you-please fucked-up latte _ONE MORE TIME_ , I swear to the gods of the gods I will _wank_ into it next time…” Valdo trails off in a fatigue-steeped voice as Jaskier snorts into his fist.  
  
“Maybe she’d drop the ‘extra-hot’ bit if her bed were warmed more often…” Jaskier chokes through a fit of giggles as Valdo follows suit, his deep bass rumble complimenting Jaskier’s bright tenor.  
  
“Bollocks…” Jaskier hisses suddenly, turning over his phone, “I’m bloody late…catch you tonight, then?” Valdo nods his assent, saluting him as he hastily collects his book bag and flings open the door.  
He shuffles quickly down the hallway; he has one more class before the promised rejuvenating embrace of the weekend; if drinking, staying up far too late and attempting to beat his own record at ‘just-how-long-can-you-put-off-that-essay’ counted as rejuvenation. He rounds the corner (careful to give it a wide berth this time) and finds himself suddenly quickening his pace. Like iron drawn to a magnate; 206’s rather _magnificent_ backside striding just ahead of him being the magnate, Jaskier hurries just under the point of being considered a run—he had _principles_ after all—and finally catches up to him, willing himself to take deep breaths and not to _pant_ for godssake, though the idea of panting while 206’s strong arms pin him down was becoming an increasingly popular opinion in Jaskier’s brain.  
  
“Hiya!” He says a bit breathlessly…206 glances at him, acknowledging his existence with that sly quirk of his lips and a flicker of his brilliant eyes, and Jaskier takes this as a silent acquiescence to continue. “…I didn’t rut into you this time…” 

FUCK, FUCKITY, FUCK, _FUCK_! 

“I mean! _RUN! Into_ …you, y’know…I mean, I’m having a _run-in_ with you… _casually_ in this hallway… _RUN…fuck_ …” If his feet hadn’t suddenly turned to lead he _would’ve_ run. Once again, Jaskier’s brain, a veritable sniper rifle of words on any given day seemed to be having a bad trip and he suddenly found himself silently drafting up a deal with the gods that they were welcome to his very soul if they could only grant him the will to disappear on the spot. His predicament is eased only when 206 stops his forward progress toward the door, smile widening as he turns to face Jaskier. He wonders how recognizable he is at the moment as his skin burns a hot, rich red from his collar to his crown, not unlike the beets his parents used to try to force him to eat. To his _relief_ , 206 has the wherewithal not to say anything immediately, and instead merely folds his _impossibly_ brawny arms and cocks his hip to one side, waiting for Jaskier to will his blood cells back into his _brain_ and air back into his lungs. He has the _audacity_ to tap his bloody toe. Jaskier straightens finally, his eyes narrowing as he leers into the other man’s face.  
  
“A _thousand apologies_ if I’m holding you up…” He grumbles out, and surprises himself with the weight of the emotion that supports the words…resentment that 206 had better things to be on about, enough to _tap his toe_ about, than talk to him even for a brief moment; and…a hard curl of _yearning_ …to shove him roughly against the wall and kiss that shit-eating grin right off his face.  
  
“Whatever it was…it can wait…” that husky rumble makes Jaskier’s toes curl in his sneakers, and the salacious mask that washes over the other man’s rough-hewn face sends a shockwave up his spine. His breath comes in shaky at best and he fights the sudden quaking shudder in his knees. Is 206… _flirting_ …with him?  
  
“The name’s Julian…though most people call me ‘Jaskier’…started as a stage-name…kinda stuck…” He silently thanks the gods for the small reprieve he is granted in a steady voice, and extends his hand.  
  
“I’m Geralt.” 206… _Geralt_ …says, taking Jaskier’s fingers in his own and squeezing them gently…big hands…big shoulders…probably big…  
  
“ _Listen_ …” Jaskier says suddenly, cutting his imagination short lest it make known his intentions in an area much further south in a greeting that very much belonged in the bedroom between two lovers, or in the _very_ least, the privacy of Jaskier’s darkened bedroom with only his right hand as a witness. “...I’m actually _woefully_ late for class…and this is sort of random…but…I’m playing tonight down at Fil’s Bar…if you, y’know…want to be _held up_ again later…” He winked, fucking _winked_ at Geralt, finally regaining some of his lost pluck, his heart hammering a million miles a minute as he waited for an answer.  
  
“Yeah…count me in.” Geralt mutters, holding Jaskier’s gaze even through the sudden insistent vibrations of his mobile. A quiet spell seemed to have descended on them, broken only when a second wave of buzzing assaults their reverie. Geralt winces, relenting at last and tugs his phone from his back pocket. Jaskier, scarcely believing his luck ducks his head quickly, taking a step back.  
  
“See you tonight then.” He whispers, and Geralt inclines his head before slowly raising the phone to his ear.  
  
Jaskier gives his modesty the finger as he practically skips through the packed quad towards the music and theatre building, his smile widening as he picks out the sultry chorus of Arctic Monkey’s ‘Do I Wanna Know’ drifting over the din of the crowd, inexplicably resonant in his ears despite the roar of hundreds of voices and shuffling feet around him. Resonant perhaps, because he knows the lyrics and he knows what just transpired between he and Geralt, fleeting though it was, and he knows his own mind…and he wants to know…in fact, he _needs_ to know…what happens next…


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Jaskier...seriously...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gods, I'm just sorry for all the run-ons and trigger happiness of the semi-colon key.

2\. “Gods, Jas, you look like you’re about to pass out…are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Ciri’s voice drifts somewhere over the roar of anxiety that’s set up camp in his head…in his chest…in the very air he _breathes_. She sets down her fiddle and lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. He shakes his head and pulls his pre-performance shot of liquid courage closer, tilting his head and relaxing his throat as he tosses the whiskey back and relishes in the familiar burn of the liquor as it clears his throat.  
  
“Yeah, m’fine…never better…” He manages, and considers fleetingly of telling her what he’s done in inviting his crazy irresistible, Justice League wannabe dorm mate to a shit-hole bar in the name of several lascivious ulterior motives to watch _him_ play…And how he now found himself firstly; tweaking the skin of his hip ferociously to check that it wasn’t all a nightmare and secondly; sorely questioning his sanity and grasp on reality in general after several seconds of insistent pinching yield no results.  
  
“Hey…” the hand on his shoulder was suddenly tugging at his rolled up shirt-sleeve, “There’s Fil, we better get out there.” Jaskier gulps heavily; _surely_ Geralt had better things to do… _surely_ he had found a better offer for his Friday evening…Jaskier slamms the lid down on a sudden ‘fight or flight’ pull in his gut, grabs his mandolin and follows Ciri onto a small raised stage that looks out over the heads of a crowed audience; college students and weary 9 to 5-ers alike. He scans the sea of faces, already hazy with drink, and feels the knot in his stomach clench tighter, jumping into his throat as nothing but blondes, brunettes, and the occasional red or black haired individual look up in the direction of Filavandrel’s voice as he introduces them. He snaps to as Ciri nudges his ankle, shooting him a ‘are-we-going-to-play-sometime-tonight’ look. Breathing deeply, he raises his mandolin;  
  
“5, 6, 7, 8…” And it was off to the races. He starts with an old favorite; a wordless jig that's more Irish than Bluegrass, but it was upbeat and mood-setting and perfectly showcases Ciri’s prowess as her fingers race along the strings of her fiddle, head bopping with feeling as her eyes slide open and closed, allowing her emotions to guide the music. And soon, Jaskier feels himself drifting along the same void, thoughts of Geralt finally assuming the backseat.  


As they careen toward intermission, so too does the zeal of their audience spike. Requests were called and liquor replaced the hard earned wages of his admirers, sliding down his own throat as often as theirs, for which he was thankful and he found himself shrugging off his unfortunate invitation and was almost ready to have a good laugh about it as he caught Valdo’s eye across the bar. 

As the final notes of a rather silly tune he had written about a cat and a mouse who set aside their differences in lieu of a rather unlikely friendship fade into the low collective hum of voices, smattering of applause and clinking glassware, his eyes flicker to the door as it swings open; admitting the hulking figure of a man who looked almost too broad to be allowed, short of becoming a bouncer. His silver hair flutters in the accompanying breeze that wafts through behind him and his golden eyes practically glow in the dim mood-lighting of the place. A liquor-soaked bolt of electricity racks Jaskier and he un-slings his instrument, propping it behind him and jumping lithely from the edge of the stage as the hum of the room rises to a dull roar in the absence of the music. 

A giddy bubble of childlike relief swirls through Jaskier and he feels as though he has suddenly developed a severe case of tunnel vision as he absolutely _does not_ elbow a group of loudly gossiping twenty-somethings who’s faces looked like they had been _sculpted_ with cheap concealer, out of the way in his haste to reach the entryway. What should he _say?_ What should he _do?_ ‘Fuck, words don’t fail me now…’ he internalizes.  
  
“Hey…glad you could fit us into your schedule…” Fuck, he wishes he had the words back as soon as they left his lips, but the whiskey was making him bold. Thankfully, Geralt must’ve been up the challenge, for far from backing down he dons a snide smirk, sliding his fingers into the pockets of those jeans that hugged his lower half in all the right places, leaving practically nothing to the imagination… ‘or perhaps too much’, Jaskier muses obscenely as his brain suddenly works overtime, summoning an image of what Geralt’s body might look like _completely_ devoid of any sort of covering, body-molding or otherwise.  
  
“I decided it was better to show up here than subject myself to an entire weekend’s worth of shoddy unrequited love covers as appreciated through our rather _thin_ shared wall…”  
Fuck, his throat felt suddenly dry… _fuck_ …but no matter how many shots he has already taken, he knows flirting…he fucking _knows_ it…and this had to be it…didn’t it? He _had_ heard him playing through the wall… _tee-hee!_ ‘And now, ladies and gentleman, raise your glasses to Jaskier’s already over-confident mouth as it plunges brashly onward, fueled by the whiskey you have so _generously_ provided…’  
  
“Careful, Geralt, or you just might find your ears burning with a shoddy, _very_ requited love cover being sung to you from _within_ the walls of your—”  
  
“Jas! Jaskier!” Jaskier hears his name being called, which was perhaps a good thing, given the flood of absolute filth that was sure to pour, unbridled from his lips at any second, and he turns to see Valdo pushing toward him from the bar.  
  
“Ho, ho! Jas, who’s your friend?” Valdo asks, giving Geralt a once over with his eyes. Jaskier knows Valdo is as straight as yardstick, but he still maintains a healthy appreciation for beauty no matter what’s riding between a person’s legs, and Jaskier’s cheeks flush…if anyone asks, it’s the whiskey. Neither Geralt’s stance nor that seemingly permanent crooked grin on his face change in the slightest as Jaskier makes introductions, and Valdo motions them back to his table and away from the traffic of the door. 

They’ve only just pulled up chairs, Geralt shrugging out of his leather jacket in a way that has Jaskier’s brain immediately appreciating it in slow-motion, when Fil catches his eye from the bar and nods; time for round two. Jaskier’s eyes flicker back to Geralt, whos gaze has remained unequally divided between his pint of beer, Valdo as he fills the space with idle conversation, and Jaskier who silently wills the feeling back into his legs as he makes to stand once more.  
  
“I’ll catch you after?” Jaskier says hesitantly in a voice that's somewhere between a statement and a question.  
  
“If you’re strong enough…perhaps…” Leave it to Geralt to challenge him with a fucking _literal_ answer that he doesn’t even have time to design a retort to because Ciri is beckoning him now, so he rolls his eyes with a snort and swaggers off in the direction of the stage and certainly does not roll his hips as he goes.  
  
Gods, he _definitely_ had a problem.  
  
***  
  
It’s One O’clock in the morning by the time he has to finally shake his head ‘no’ into the audience who are still shouting requests, but the tell-tale slop of ale over the sides of their pints is enough of an affirmation to Jaskier that they will remember very little of this in the morning, including his denial to continue singing through the aching burn in his throat or the painful throb in his heavily calloused fingers. Nonetheless, he derives a strangely perverse pleasure from the pain, and maybe that makes him a bit of a masochist but Jaskier’s okay with it because it’s the one tangible piece of gratification that lingers with him through the weekend, like the bruises of a particularly overzealous lover…reminding him that he leaves a piece of his soul behind in the bar every single Friday; and it’s the best feeling in the world. Though currently, this ranking was being steadily outstripped by the intruding presence of the man at his side.  
  
They had finally left Fil’s, and since they lived in the same building, Jaskier was saved from dredging up a number of half-pleading excuses to continue to be around Geralt. And so they had stepped into the relative silence of the evening onto a main street lined with watering holes; music and laughter drifting form several. They strolled past neon lights advocating late night slices and questionable tumble-down box van-turned-food-wagons with an equally debatable clientele lurking outside. Even Jaskier, who so often found himself more likely to deafen from a lack of verbal stimulation as anything else maintained his silence for several long minutes, merely content to revel in the satisfaction that Geralt strode, tall, majestic and imposing at his side. But his inevitable internal clock; the one that measures just how long he could withstand any given silence, soon runs out and he hitches his mandolin further up his shoulder.  
  
“So, what’s your major?” He asks, trying to keep things casual despite the striking way the moon’s rays filter through the trees, throwing delicate shadows across a face that could have belonged to one of those medieval warriors on that TV show Ciri had forced him to binge-watch last weekend.  
  
“Criminal Justice.” Geralt replies evenly, eyes glaring threateningly into the shadows of a doorway across the street as a faceless man jeers, casting lewd gestures at Jaskier’s back with his fingers. Jaskier’s cheeks burn as a smile fit to crack his face in two cramps his cheeks.  
  
“When do you graduate?”  
  
“Next fall, if I’m lucky…and by lucky I mean living free of aural distractions long enough to finish enough work to walk with an above-average GPA…” His worry-creased brow breaks into a wicked grin as Jaskier feels his face flush indignantly.  
  
“Oh, well _excuse_ the hell outta me, I’ll be sure to confine myself to the _parking lot_ from now on, lest being the source of your _scholarly failure_ cleave my heart in twain…” The words pour exasperatedly from his lips as he flourishes his hands in a dramatic re-enactment of heartbreak.  
  
“I’d haul you up to the roof if I thought it would help.” Geralt replies in a husky voice that sends Jaskier’s shoulders slumping, effectively wiping the metaphorical slate of his headspace and replacing any rebuttal with a minute cartoon sketch of what Jaskier would look like dangling over Geralt’s broad shoulder as he hauls him up the stairs; hands creeping up his thighs, and nothing but the movement of his perfectly sculpted buttocks to lavish his eyes upon.  
  
They had made their way steadily back onto campus and were now striding across aforementioned parking lot, Jaskier continuing to gape at Geralt as though he had sprouted a set of horns, which would not have been surprising at all given the sadistic nature of the smile that held his handsome face captive. He utilizes the time it takes them to reach the front door to mentally rock, paper, scissor between three equally flowery come-backs but finds the need for any of them utterly stolen away when Geralt reaches for the door, holding it open for him..the perfect fucking gentleman…and says in a more serious tone;  
  
“I like your music…and I liked listening to you play tonight…perhaps a few _hold ups_ …now and then won’t make or break…” Before Jaskier can attempt to re-arrange any of the nonsensical slurry of letters whirling in his head into actual, speakable words, Geralt is thrusting something at him; it's a torn piece of napkin with…Geralt’s number on it…  
  
“…Doesn’t mean we’re engaged or anything…” He growls, lingering with the door held open only a moment longer before shrugging with a chuckle that practically vibrates _Jaskier’s_ ribs and ducks inside, allowing the door to swing closed behind him.  
  
And just like that, Jaskier felt himself dissolving into the body of a fucking teenage pubescent mess as he waits just long enough to be sure that his idiotic skipping gait as he makes his own way upstairs will not become a thing of pubic record. He flings open the door (taking care not to slam it, for the love of the gods, Geralt was still next door), and drops his mandolin on the floor before flopping onto his back upon the bed, holding the shredded piece of napkin aloft as though it's made of gold and he resits the urge to kiss the delicate whisp of paper _and_ shamelessly blast ‘4Ever’ by The Veronicas at full decibel.  
  
“Boy, you got it baaad…” Valdo’s voice drifts from the front room.  
  
***  
  
It’s the age-old question; well, _age-old_ in a strictly digital age sense…and funnily enough it’s a conundrum Jaskier has dealt with surprisingly seldomly in his brief young adult life. He’s fucked, he’s even dated a fair bit, but he’s never quite felt the inexplicable pull to spend every waking moment with his eyes glued to his phone screen; thriving on the little 4-letter word ‘ _seen_ ’ that he’d known to send many a stronger man than him careening into an anxiety filled crisis; or the drive to seek out the sick pleasure that came with the constant need to shore himself up with assurances that those three little thought-bubble encased dots will amount to everything his heart needs to hear from the person at the other end. 

Mostly he’s done more than his fair share of talking his friends through the enigma of how soon is _too soon_ to text someone who’s just given you their number and what is the appropriate length of time to allow before sending pictures, and how many times is too many times you’ve used ‘LOL’, and how long before it’s painstakingly necessary to consider that its been _too_ long that the other person hasn’t answered and on, and on, and on until now Jaskier’s hands are shaking on his phone and he’s pretty sure the battery bar has already dropped several ticks from the effort of keeping his blank message back-lit.  
_Fuck_.  
  
He rolls onto his back, steeling himself. He knows Geralt is awake. He’s heard the tell-tale clatter of coffee pot on burner. Keep it light…keep it platonic…no, _no_ morning wood pics you fuck-head…his fingers finally tap out the message and he smiles; whether it’s too soon or not, the message is a necessary one, and therefore fit to be sent at any time.  
  
**Hey. Happy Saturday…this is Jaskier BTW**  
  
He hits ‘send’ and his fingers pause only momentarily before a grin breaks over his face and he raps out;  
**  
…similarly, if you save my number under ‘annoying guitar riff from next door’ or ‘jukebox hero’ or anything of a similar nature, I shall personally come over there and slap you.**  
  
Perfect. It’s snarky yet provocative but not overbearing…and there are the dots, and Jaskier feels his heart skip…gods it’s started  
  
**Geralt: …wouldn’t dream of it…might dream of the second part…**  
  
Brazen bastard…but if Geralt was the one taking it there, Jaskier was more than willing to follow…as if he had any choice…he raises his fingers to his screen again and hesitates…reality catching up with him in a rush as though it had received the invitation to the party but had gotten the day wrong. Jaskier is _sure_ Geralt is flirting with him…there's no doubt there, which meant that male counterparts served as the muses for at least a small percent of his sexual preferences, but aside from that, Jaskier knows next to nothing about him; aside from his revelation about his major and the fact that he is a year ahead of Jaskier educationally speaking anyway. But he knows nothing of his actual age, where he is from, what he even liked, or if he was _actually_ single (that had been a rather irksome trap on more than one occasion than he’d like to admit in the past). And that was when Jaskier found his fingers inexorably typing the next bit into his message screen;  
  
**…careful, dreams like that have a funny way of becoming reality in rather short order where I’m concerned…**  
  
A pause, and then;  
  
**…perhaps a pleasant round of ‘get-to-know-you-better’ might be kinder first before diving down that rabbit hole?**  
  
‘Seen’…dots…silence…dots…silence…Jaskier felt his insides twist…anxiety… _fuck_ …but he could no more tear his eyes away than he could cut off his own hand.  
  
**Geralt: This weekend and next week are destined to be rather unfortunate in the homework arena, but I’ve marked out Friday next…**  
  
Jaskier blew out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding as a screen-shot followed of an entry in Geralt’s calendar;  
  
**‘Jaskier: allowable distraction, 9 O’clock, Fil’s Bar’**  
  
Jaskier couldn’t help the guffaw of laughter that exploded from him as he read and re-read the words, his hunger growing as more came;  
  
**…I even used your real name, though ‘Drowning Peacock’ and ‘Lark with Laryngitis’ were close seconds.**  
  
Jaskier practically chokes on his own tongue as his laughter turns into a gasp of outrage faster than blinking and he hammers his fist against the wall in a warning.  
  
***  
  
And that’s how the next week goes: the occasional ‘run-in’ in the hall, dripping with barely-contained sexual tension; and bolder still, in the dark shroud of their respective apartments, hidden behind the shield of a cell phone and unthreatened by the reactions of in-person interaction, a _torrent_ of even more blatant texts spiral almost out of control; toeing a fine line between flowery, explicit metaphors and calling things as they are; that Jaskier is falling _desperately_ for a man he’s known for scarcely over a week, and while unprecedented in its velocity he can’t shake the feeling that it’s a piece of his life he hadn’t even known he’d been missing.  
  
Its how he finds himself back up onstage at Fil’s Bar the following Friday, playing his fucking heart out to his own unique take of Seal’s ‘Kiss From A Rose’ and trying not to focus too intensely upon the golden eyed gaze of the rather picturesque boulder of a man sitting with Valdo at a corner table. It’s almost as though a routine is developing as Jaskier saunters over between sets to drink and banter before returning for the last time to the stage, almost closing down the bar with a renewed gusto that he may or may not have Geralt to thank for.  
  
It’s in the wee hours of the morning that they once again set out down the moonlit path back toward campus, armed with decidedly questionable hotdogs drenched in what Jaskier hopes is ketchup because its dark enough that he can’t really tell what he’s dolloping onto his food and he’s just drunk enough and just hungry enough that he hardly cares. Whether liquor plays any part in it or not, Jaskier is glad when he finally manages to loosen Geralt’s tongue enough to learn a little about where he’s from; Rivia, what he likes; peace, quiet, ale and _horror movies_ oddly enough, and what he wants to do after college and what he wants out of life and though Geralt’s answers are generally brief and somewhat clipped, Jaskier logs every piece away. He likes Geralt this way…it’s like he’s found a chink in his armor. They lapse into silence for a few moments, the space between them broken only by the sounds of teeth pulverizing meat products that would likely remain resolutely dubious regardless of what shady corner vendor hawked them. They had reached the parking lot of Kaedwen Hall once more, and Geralt breaks the silence;  
  
“Why do you go by ‘Jaskier’?” Geralt asks, swallowing thickly and running his tongue along his teeth in a way that makes the heat pool behind Jaskier’s navel and he forces his eyes resolutely forward.  
  
“My mother’s Polish. She used to call me ‘Jaskier’ as a boy…more often that ‘Julian’ actually…makes me wonder sometimes why she even bothered with ‘Julian’ at all…” He pops the last bite of what had really been a rather _excellent_ bit of mystery meat, though perhaps that was the liquor talking, into his mouth.  
  
“Thtill…” he continues thickly, around a huge bite, “’Jathkier’ thounds more _dawing_ and _edgy_ than ‘Thulian’” His eyes widen apologetically as Geralt shoots him a rather withering look. He swallows and ducks his head.  
  
“If what I _think_ I heard in that is right…I’m not sure a name change has really made all that much difference in your _daring_ or _edge_ …or lackthereof…” He trails off, that wicked smirk blooming on his face once more and just as Jaskier deigns this moment to be the moment he makes good on his text message threat from earlier, even if it is only to slug his shoulder, Geralt’s hand is faster; it closes suddenly around his wrist with a steadfast strength that Jaskier is not altogether surprised by. But he _is_ surprised by the rate at which his heart picks up and wonders if this is how he will die; with his right arm clutched in Geralt’s fist as the man’s left hand drifts to the corner of his mouth, swiping a glob of ketchup away and… _sucking it off his thumb…sucking it off his FUCKING thumb_ …and soon Jaskier’s brain is melting away on a perpetual loop of those five words as they play back on repeat and he hopes his feet are still beneath him. They must be because he is still standing, though just barely, and then nothing else matters at all because both of his wrists are caught in Geralt’s and that should hold him up if his knees give out right? And his lips are suddenly, mind-blowingly, _hungrily_ latched onto Geralt’s and he doesn’t even try to hold back the whimper of barely-surpressed _desire_ that’s threatened to make his head explode over the last two weeks. 

Geralt’s hand slides from his wrist into the small of his back, pulling him closer and he can feel the hesitation of Geralt’s tongue against his lips as though he’s deciding just how high to turn up the heat, so Jaskier makes the decision for him, His own tongue pushing greedily between his lips. He’s suddenly thankful for a little thing called gravity as his thigh slides languidly between Geralt’s, for he would surely float away on a happy cloud of lust otherwise. 

And then, Geralt’s tongue isn’t the only thing that’s hesitant anymore as he flinches away from Jaskier’s leg and lets his hands drop and the kiss to fall away. He’s breathing heavily now and Jaskier can see the proof of his arousal silhouetted between his legs, but there’s a pained look on his face as he takes two steps back, retreating into the shadows.  
  
“Geralt…what…is something…?” Jaskier stammers out, because he’s _sure_ he’s been reading him right and he’s also _sure_ Geralt initiated their bawdy parking lot makeout just now. Geralt’s jaw works furiously as though he’s digging for the right words and his fists clench seemingly involuntarily, and finally he turns his golden pools of eyes to Jaskier’s; full of longing, anguish, uncertainty… _regret? Fuck_.  
  
“Jaskier…” He pauses, swallowing a few more times as though maybe he can swallow away the meaning he knows his gaze is betraying.  
  
“I’m sorry.” And he turns without a backward glance, leaving Jaskier in a sudden, sickening shadow of self-doubt that makes the bile rise in his throat.  
  
He doesn’t sleep. He wants to text him. He knows he shouldn’t, but fuck that. No one got anywhere in life by playing it safe.  
  
**What the fuck was that, Geralt…talk to me…**  
  
No answer, no dots…just _‘seen’_ …  
  
***  
  
The next day is the first day of spring holiday and he’s already made plans to go home. Perhaps it’s for the best…at least at home he can surround himself with things that don’t remind him of Geralt. He can get his head on straight and decide how best to move forward. So he scrapes the rest of his clothes together, slips his laptop in between a couple pairs of College of Southern Cintra joggers and grabs his guitar (he’ll be slayed if he doesn’t practice _actual_ music, even on vacation), and his phone.  
  
“See you in a week, Valdo…” He throws over his shoulder, and Valdo snaps out of the hypnotic stupor he’s been brewing in over The Witcher 3 just long enough to mutter a ‘Yeah, take care man’ in response. Jaskier pulls the door closed and turns to the left, fully expecting to stand outside Geralt’s door for as long as it takes to get the man to talk to him; in fact he’s even made sure to position his snacks at the forefront of his pack in case the affair extends toward lunchtime. He only jumps slightly upon the realization that he’s been saved the effort of sacrificing his fists against Geralt’s door as the man himself is currently lurking in his own doorway, arms crossed and eyes sliding from their appraisal of a point somewhere down the hallway to Jaskier, an intense brooding look darkening his features. His eyes though, are…desperate…apologetic…confused…  
  
“Geralt—” He croaks out before the man can utter a word, but the sound of the elevator door cuts through the tension like a knife and then there’s a squeal of delight…and after that there’s an admittedly beautiful woman dumping her bags at Geralt’s feet and practically mounting him in the middle of the hall, cascade of dark hair hiding his face from view as she hitches her legs higher on his waist.  
  
And then he knew…and desperate to retreat before Geralt has the chance to see the tears that burn his eyes, has the chance to say any _fucking_ thing at all, he turns on his heel and storms down the hall. He thunders down the stairs as the tears come, collapsing against the front doors of Kaedwen Hall and stumbling out into a morning that had no fucking right to be this beautiful in the face of the black iron fist that seemed to be utterly suffocating his heart. His vision is hazy, and he forces his feet forward…one in front of the other as the sounds of Ryan Adams’ ‘Desire’ drifts from the fingers of one of his fellow students, lounging at the feet of a shady tree off to his right. He stops, rooted to the spot as the gentle acoustic vibrations fill his head and lyrics that threaten break him down into a desperate mess right there in the middle of the parking lot _suffocate_ him…in almost the same place he had stood last night…and he lets them.

Finally, as the need to replenish the moisture that has been draining silently down his face becomes rather desperate, he scrubs a hand across his cheek; Fuck this...and fuck Geralt.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday, luvs.  
> I hope you are all safe out there. It's uncertain times we are dealing with right now. And now more than ever, take that extra moment to hold your friends and loved ones close and give that extra kind word to those around you. You never know what people are going through and everyone is dealing with current events in their own way. Take a moment to look in the mirror and remember you are loved, take a moment to tell those who are struggling that they are loved.  
> -xoxo-Megan

3\. _‘Bvvvvvvvvt!..bvvvvvt!’_ Jaskier snatches his phone off the passenger’s seat and flips it over briefly, but in the gut of his guts he already knows what he’s going to see, and sure enough, Geralt’s name is lighting up the screen. He growls, tossing his mobile back onto the seat and jerks the steering wheel of his old, but reliable 86’ Civic which is listing dangerously close to the sidewalk as a result of his scattered attentions.  
  
_‘Bvvvvvvt!....bvvvvvt!’_ The vibrations come in again and even though he knows it’s not possible, they seem even louder and more insistent. Fuck that. He turns up the radio, (‘Break Stuff’ by Limp Bizkit, how appropriate) and guns the engine as he reaches the freeway. Geralt lied to him… _why?_ They had only known each other for a little over two weeks, but had seen each other plenty enough times for him to have dropped this teeny, tiny, eensie, weensie detail several times over, so why the secrecy?  
  
_‘Bvvvvvvt!...bvvvvvvt!’_  
  
“For the love of fuck!” Jaskier yells at the vacant passenger’s seat before thumbing the radio back down to a dull roar and finally relenting.  
  
“Geralt, I have nothing to say to you right now…”  
  
“Jaskier…we need to talk…” Jaskier barks a condescending laugh;  
  
“Oh, that’s rich…really, _really_ rich now that your _tongue_ is on a first name basis with my _tonsils_!” Silence greets him from the other end of the line, so he plows on, seeing red and not caring at this point what he _does_ (as long as it’s not hit the car in front of him because his foot has developed a rage-induced mind of its own), _or says_ to Geralt.  
  
“Tell me, what did your little _girlfriend_ say when you told her about your little lip-locking incursion, Geralt? Please describe to me, if you can, the _exact_ look on her face when you told her you almost went cave diving with the boy next door? Or haven’t you told her?” He was rolling now, and even if he could have managed to get ahold on his runaway mouth, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.  
  
"Jaskier..."   
“…no, of course not…why would you tell her? That would involve being honest and gods know you don’t seem to hold much stake in that…”  
  
“Shut up, Jaskier…and shut up about Yennefer, this isn’t her fault…just let me fucking—”  
“Gods, you have some nerve! Here’s a little free lesson for you, Geralt…one they must not teach you in _criminal justice_ school…because, let me tell you, it is _criminally unjust_ …to stomp all over someone’s heart…someday you’ll have to face _that_ music!”  
  
And blowing like a winded rhinoceros, he jabs his finger into the red ‘hang-up’ button and chucks the phone back down onto the seat.  
  
***  
  
Jaskier doesn’t stop glancing in his rear-view looking for cops until he's pulling safely into the driveway of his parents’ two-story craftsman, nestled in a quiet cul-de-sac in an upper middle-class suburban neighborhood. His childhood home was well over three-and-a-half hours from the university, but he knew his rogue lead foot had carried them there in at least three-quarters of the time, and thankfully not a speeding ticket the heavier. He sighs wearily as he turns the key off, balling up his anger and heartache and tucking it away. He feels suddenly and overwhelmingly tired even though it's only two O’clock in the afternoon. Geralt’s girlfriend had obviously been there to spend the holiday with him…he would forget about Jaskier by tomorrow if not sooner and Jaskier was bound and determined to forget about him.  
  
Except that, oh by the way, he was hopelessly _besotted_ with the insolent twat.  
  
He trudges up the steps and pulls open a screen door whos paint hasn’t changed in over fifty years, dumping his duffel off in the entry way. Patsy Cline drifts from the old turn-table in the kitchen and far from being cheerful; the drawling, pining twang of the woman’s voice drives him deeper into a muddy pit of self-loathing. His excuses to his mother for breaking the vinyl over his knee have almost topped the number of times the singer has said the word ‘crazy’ when the woman herself finally ducks into the kitchen through the door that leads to the back yard. She envelopes him in a warm embrace and he fights another wave of emotion that threatens his eyes. She asks him all of the usual questions about how he’s been and how school is and if he’s sure he still wants to be a musician and he responds heartily that if Patsy Cline can do it, so can he. They’re laughing heartily now as his father stumbles in, the sounds of the garage closing following him through the door. For a few, blessed moments he forgets completely about Geralt and relishes in the comfort and company of loved ones whom he knows will always be there for him.  
  
Hotdogs…why did dinner have to be fucking _hotdogs_ (bratwurst actually, but _fuck_ , close enough)…he almost went without fucking ketchup as images of Geralt’s thumb whisking that rogue drop away from his mouth…the way he pulled his thumb through his lips…flash in his mind’s eye like a bad slide show. 

He eats silently and tries not to let his unrest show on his face. He tries to banish the memory of the way Geralt’s tongue had felt; pushing between his lips in a voiceless bid for _more_. His stomach sours as Yennefer’s shining face, _disgustingly_ full of devotion as she ran toward Geralt in the hall battered his brain and he pushed back from the table, making excuses that he was tired, and heads up the stairs to his loft bedroom. Once the door is closed he flops on his bed with an exasperated sigh, barking internally at his thoughts to form a single-file line so he can assess them properly. The way he saw it, there were only two reasons Geralt would have bothered with this somewhat sadistic wild goose chase:  
  
A. He really was a great, stupid nob and really _did_ derive some sick pleasure out of playing hard-to-get before showing off little miss ‘perfect tits’…which, for reasons Jaskier couldn’t even entirely explain himself, just didn’t seem likely at all. For a criminal justice major, the man barely demonstrated enough criminal _mastermind_ to fill an egg-cup.  
  
OR  
  
B. He really _did_ have feelings for Jaskier…and was just shit at expressing them…it certainly fit Geralt’s M.O. and was therefore far more likely…(gods, _he_ should have been a criminal justice major)  
  
The bigger problem was that neither of these explanations made him feel any better. Jaskier had dealt with his fair share of dishonest potential suitors and heartache before, but for some reason this was different and he didn’t know why…he _doesn’t _know why he feels like he’s known Geralt for far longer than he has, making the knife in his back one-hundred times worse…doesn’t know why he can’t shake even the simple feeling of euphoria he gets when he thinks about Geralt’s eyes on him…doesn’t know why he’s inundated with feelings of possessiveness he never even knew he was capable of. To cap it all off, he knows they've made no arrangement to be exclusive and he's pouting like a jealous child, but it doesn't matter.__

____

He’s getting existential now, and he suddenly finds himself almost inexplicably pawing through his duffel in search of a whiskey, for the proverbial lake of his misery is a bit dry at the moment. Taking a long draw from the bottle, he reaches haphazardly toward the radio on the nightstand and flips it on, sitting back on the mattress once more. ‘Medicate’ by Theory of a Deaman crackles through and he lets it wash over him as he slugs his whiskey once more.  
  
He almost throws his phone against the wall as it buzzes again in his pocket, and only just catches himself as Ciri’s name flashes across the screen.  
  
**Ciri: Valdo said I should check on you**  
  
Jaskier rolled his eyes;  
  
**He did, did he…**  
  
**Ciri: He said you left in a huff…strung out on some guy who lives in your building. I told him he was being thick…**  
Jaskier thought if he rolled his eyes any harder, they might _actually_ get stuck up there.  
  
**He is thick. But he’s not wrong…unfortunately.**  
  
Dots…silence…dots… _‘Bvvvvvt!….bvvvvvvvvvt!’_  
  
He sighs, hitting the green ‘answer’ button, and Ciri’s voice immediately accosts him with a volume and intensity that suggests she may as well have been physically in the room.  
  
“Good _gods_ , Jas, are you feeling alright? Do you have a fever?” Jaskier snorts derisively;  
  
“I wish…” He said quietly.  
  
“Oh honey…” Ciri says, her voice dripping empathetically now, “…finally found your Venus have you? What happened?”  
  
“He’s already got one…” Jaskier provides sullenly… “…already got his own Venus…I just wish I understood _why_ …fuck it…”  
  
“What? Talk to me…” Ciri’s voice soothes from the other end.  
  
“He spent the last two weeks sending me more signals than a drunk, horny Grinder troll in a six-week dry spell…but then this morning…” He trails off, raising the bottle to his lips again before continuing, “…his fucking girlfriend shows up…” He pauses, his gut writhing savagely, “…hit and _sunk_ …” He spits sourly, forming his fist around an invisible dagger and thrusting it to his chest with a twist.  
  
“Oh _fuck_ …it’s that guy that lives in the dorm next to yours? The one who’s been coming on Fridays?”  
  
“She shoots, she scores…” Jaskier sighs miserably. Silence on the other end, and then;  
  
“Did you have sex with him?”  
  
“Cirilla Fiona! You wicked little _minx_! No!” A wicked cackle greets this before she chokes out;  
  
“…so you kissed then?” 

____

How the _fuck_ does she know these things? It takes all of his strength, particularly now that the whiskey is effectively hazing him out, to suppress delicious images of he and Geralt; naked and sweating and clutching at each other in the dark.  
  
“2 for 2…” he drawls miserably, laying back onto the mattress too quickly and sending a wash of whiskey straight to his brain. “He started it…then he broke it off…saying he was fucking _sorry_ …and when I went to talk to him in the morning, there he was in the hall…and there _she_ was…two ticks shy of tattooing his name across her ass…” He swallows a painful lump in his throat and his eyes burn threateningly as silence greets these words. When Ciri speaks again, though, her voice isn’t sympathetic or commiserating anymore;  
  
“Jaskier, he _likes_ you…” Jaskier opens his mouth to retaliate, but she plunges on without giving him an opening, “No, _seriously_ , it makes _sense_ …and perhaps he is being a dull-wit about it…but I think he’s confused…doesn’t know how to handle it…”  
  
“Even if that were true…I’m not wasting my time _fawning_ after the prick-head…” (that was more or less a lie, but he was certainly going to make a valiant effort) “…besides, he didn’t seem at all eager to push off her rather obscene affections…” He growls darkly, propping himself on his elbows and taking another swig. His heart is growing weary of the conversation and his brain is losing the ability to think clearly.  
  
“Jaskier…just—”  
  
“Ciri, I gotta go…I’m sorry…I’ll call you later, alright?” And he hangs up. The air in the room is already warm and humid and he feels like he’s drowning now in a suffocating torrent of liquor and 3 Doors Down ‘Here Without You’ as he drags the nearest pillow to him and pummels it, gritting his teeth. Like poison from a wound, the tears come, leaking silently into soft cloud of cotton that he clutches, white-knuckled to his face, making his prayers to the gods…to _anyone_ who will listen…that they need only name their price and he will gladly give it in exchange for the pain.

____


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyric cred to 'Everything I Wanted' by Billie Eilish 
> 
> If you haven't watched 'Six Days Seven Nights' I highly recommend

4\. He may have sunk to new low in letting Mariah Carey’s ‘We Belong Together’ to endure instead of simply turning his key over that extra half-inch, silencing any accessory functions as he sits in the parking lot of Kaedwen Hall, sweat beading on his brow in the growing heat of his vehicle, but he hardly cares. As though the universe has developed some crazed vendetta against him, there they stand; Geralt and his Venus, fused together in an embrace that has Jaskier wondering how many nuclear bombs would be required to break it. His nostrils flare as he struggles to get ahold on his ragged breathing in the already oxygen-deprived space, his chest fit to burst open against his battering ram of a heart. He wants to tear his eyes away but his free will seems to have been stolen by some spell that forbids him from doing so. So he sits and prays that an actual nuke will drop and either end the sickening display, or end _him_ …  
  
After what seems like a fucking _eternity_ , they break away…without a kiss? Interesting to be sure…but it doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself…Geralt pulls open the door of Yennefer’s vehicle and she slides in, slamming the door rather roughly behind her… _still_ doesn’t mean anything…and Geralt watches as she pulls away…with a _pained_ look on his face? No…Jaskier _wants_ it to be a pained look…but in reality, wasn’t that how a lover should look when saying goodbye for an unknown breadth of time? Jaskier groans and finds himself wishing that Geralt had at least managed to develop some dreadful physical affliction over the holiday, but he is still just as mind-fuckingly gorgeous as the day Jaskier had left a week ago, and he slides further down in the seat as Geralt’s eyes follow Yennefer’s departure.  
  
Jaskier remains hunkered down for several minutes, until the sound of the other car’s engine has long faded and his need for oxygen becomes more dire. He raises his eyes over the steering wheel, relieved as the sight of Geralt’s back disappearing through the front door greets him and he cracks open the door, gasping for breath, though he’s unsure if it’s a lack of oxygen or that vice-like pain in his chest that’s more responsible. He drops his head in his hands and focuses on his breathing; more than this, he’s killing the time it takes for Geralt to disappear back upstairs and into his own room…he’s not ready to face him.  
  
Presently, Jaskier emerges from his car and walks shakily toward Kaedwen Hall, steeling himself as he reaches for the door; squeezing his eyes open and shut in an desperate bid to unsee Geralt’s arms wrapped around her and in an even more desperate attempt to stop his ceaseless brain from diving into how Geralt had likely spent his weekend with her. He tiptoes down the hall to his dorm as fast as he can manage without making noise and exhales with relief as he tugs open the door and collapses against the other side of it, allowing himself to slide down to the floor. Maybe he should apply to change buildings.  
  
***  
  
Jaskier sits propped with his back against the headboard of his twin, ears spiraling down a rabbit hole as they strain for any noises coming from beyond the wall behind his head despite his best efforts to tune it out. His guitar sits across his knees where he’d parked it fifteen minutes ago but hadn’t picked it up since. His phone lies loose in his right hand, thumb hovering over the ‘send’ key before instead pressing insistently into the ‘backspace’ button, wiping the message clean for what had to be the fifteenth time since he’d gotten home. 

He was being stupid; he wanted desperately to talk to Geralt; had felt the tug to reach out the moment he had set foot over the threshold. He felt like a moth, and like Geralt was the flame, but there isn’t anything he can think of to say that doesn’t sound mind-numbingly foolish, overbearing or inciteful and some small part of him just manages to maintain through his delirium that he doesn’t _owe_ Geralt anything anyway…so what is the point of saying anything? 

Geralt hadn’t made any further attempt to reach out to him since the day he left. Even Jaskier, who sports his love affair with words like a badge of honor recognizes defeat. He turns his phone over as though the empty message screen is mocking him and scrubs a hand furiously through his hair, exhaling deeply. He draws his guitar up into his hands and settles them over the strings. As though they have a mind of their own, his fingers begin rapping out a sultry, minor key, flamenco style riff. It’s heart-breaking and provocative and he knows the sound will vibrate the walls, and perhaps that’s enough of a message.  
  
***  
  
_‘I had a dream, I got everything I wanted…Not what you’d think…and if I’m being honest it might’ve been a nightmare…to anyone who might care…_ ’

He hears his alarm go off…he just doesn’t care.

_‘Thought I could fly, so I stepped off the Golden…Nobody cried…nobody even noticed, I saw them standing right there…kinda thought they might care…’_

He knew he’d effectively skipped class an hour-and-a-half later as he continues to stare up at the ceiling…he knows he should care about that…but he doesn’t.

_‘I had a dream, I got everything I wanted…but when I wake up, I see you with me…’_

He considers getting up when he hears the door to 206 open and shut through the wall behind him…he _almost_ cares about that.

 _‘And you say, as long as I’m here, no one can hurt you…don’t wanna lie here, but you can learn to…If I could change the way that you see yourself, you wouldn’t wonder why you hear…They don’t deserve you.’_  
  
He is forced to care when his bladder makes the decision for him, and he finally tosses the sheets aside, trudging to the bathroom. He chances a glance at himself in the mirror over the sink; his hair is a tousled, sticky mess and his normally bright sapphire eyes are glazed and heavily lidded from a lack of sleep. 

He finally decides a shower is in order and he turns it on as hot as he can stand it, despite the promise of a warm day, because just maybe it’ll cleanse the sickness of grief away. He steps out of his small clothes and under the pelting spray, closing his eyes and hanging his head between his shoulders as the superheated deluge washes over the back of his neck and shoulders like a thousand needles pricking his skin. He breathes in as the steam intensifies around him as though the hot, humid air can cleanse his very soul. 

His hands rove over his own body, massaging the feeling back into shoulders long numbed out by the pelting force of the water. After half-heartedly scrubbing soap through his hair and over his skin, he settles down onto the floor of the tub and draws his knees to his chest. It shouldn’t hurt like this, but he can no more stop the ache from gnawing his insides than he could stop the earth from turning. He curls in on himself long after the water goes cold.  
  
It's going on early evening when he hears the front door click open and the sound of keys being dropped on a table. A second later his own door is thrown wide to admit Valdo as he invites himself in and drops onto the end of Jaskier’s bed.  
  
“Did it ever occur to you to knock?” Jaskier asks, raising his head out of a rather boring chapter about early Baroque music and cocking an eyebrow at his friend. Valdo shrugs and pushes a latte and a wrapped pastry across the bed. Jaskier could have kissed him. He had eaten a little, but only out of an instinctual desire and only enough to satisfy the growl of hunger; he couldn’t even remember what it had been. “Thanks for this…” Jaskier manages a weak smile as he unwraps a lemon blueberry scone. Valdo levels him a sympathetic look before leaning back and propping himself on his elbows.  
  
“Look…all I’m saying is there’s this movie where these strangers get stranded on a deserted island paradise together, and they quickly end up falling for each other despite the fact that one of them’s engaged back in the real world…and once they get back, they gotta face a painful reality…pick up the pieces…find a way to move on…” Jaskier throws him a condescending look over the lid of his latte.  
  
“…Your idea of a divine philosophical intervention is the plot of ‘Six Days, Seven Nights’?” Jaskier snorts, and then he narrows his eyes, “…If you even _think_ about comparing me to Anne Heche, you may find a latte in your lap…” They’re both laughing then and it does feel good…like the sunrise that brings new hope and reinforcements to what was beginning to feel like an impossible battle. They’re quiet for a while and Jaskier chews his scone gratefully, surprised that the perfect marriage of blueberry and lemon actually tastes pleasant and doesn’t turn to ash on his tongue. He licks the last traces of sticky sugar from his fingers and sits up straighter, crossing his legs under him.  
  
“I seem to remember Harrison Ford running, rather illegally, across an airport tarmac in an effort to confess his undying affections after Anne Heche ends her engagement…which, let’s be honest, was rather vanilla to begin with…” Valdo is silent a moment longer, but the look he’s giving Jaskier is sad and searching and when he finally speaks, his voice is low and a bit raspy.  
  
“This isn’t Hollywood, Jas…you shouldn’t keep torturing yourself…besides, look at you…if my door swung that way, I’d pick you up…totally sober too…” Jaskier giggles and slugs his friend before adopting a more somber tone;  
  
“…and _this_ …” He gestured toward the shared wall behind him, “…isn’t just a hookup, or lackthereof…I can’t explain it…nothing’s ever felt like this before…it’s like I come alive when he looks at me…” Jaskier is staring pointedly down into his lap where his fingers are nervously tugging a loose thread in his comforter and he stills them with an effort. Another long pause extends between them and he gives his head a little shake, blinking back the moisture in his eyes before raising his head once more;  
  
“I won’t torture myself…I hold no illusion that there are any undying confessions coming my way…but I can still dream that Yennefer will end up like David Schwimmer, right?” Valdo snorts and rolls his eyes;  
  
“I’ll allow it…”  
  
“Okay so truth, which one am I?”  
  
“I thought you didn’t want me to compare you to Anne Heche…”  
  
“Are those horns supporting your halo?” But Valdo is giving him a more serious look now;  
  
“…Harrison…because you always love with your heart first…” Jaskier feels his cheeks color and words tumbling like dice in his head, but Valdo is already pushing off the bed and he extends his hand.  
“C’mon, come kill some Zombies with me and I’ll order pizza…and then I’ll give you an Ambien for dessert because you’re going to sleep and then you are going to go to class tomorrow and you’re going to survive this…”  
  
Smiling broadly now, Jaskier allows himself to be led away toward a Resident Evil 4 marathon, blissfully oblivious to the ear that has been straining to hear against the opposite wall for the last thirty minutes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...writing lyrics ain't my thing, but I tried...

5\. He’s locked the dream away; it’s under control. Classes have kept him busy; it’s a welcome distraction that fuels the healing process. He’s past the stage where cookie dough ice cream solves everything…and then he remembers that’s not a _stage_ , that’s just _life_. He’s been composing more fervently than ever now, and it’s a good stress reliever, and he’s excited to present the new material to Ciri and the rest of the group tonight to be performed tomorrow. He takes pride in the fact that he manages not to think about Geralt _all_ day…baby steps right? He sighs and stares down what he’s written with a furrowed brow:  
  
_‘What flourishes and thrives in shade as in sun?  
Needing not water, and can’t be out-run?  
Feeds not from a mouth, nor of your hand  
but it’s a tender fragile flower--most beautiful blossom of the land  
So willingly given, so easy to take  
Its brilliance will blind you and your heart it will ache  
Without proper care, it will wither and die,  
Suffocating in the face of a muse deemed dry’_  
  
It wasn’t perfect, but he can feel his eyes starting to cross and it was almost time for rehearsal, so he shuts his notes and grabs his mandolin and sticks his head tentatively out the front door, scanning the hallway for any tall, burly, silver-haired, elven warrior look-alikes before proceeding out.  


He ducks into the stairwell and makes it halfway down when the sound of footsteps coming up bring him to a screeching halt, his heart pounding wildly in his chest and his stomach doing backflips fit to put an Olympian to shame. His feet feel as though they’ve turned to lead, and all he can do is stand there like a statue, breathing heavily out of his nose and trying to keep his face straight and calm as a wild mop of silver hair crests the second floor landing. And then Geralt’s eyes are on him and Jaskier feels like he’s being doused in a wave of liquid gold as Geralt comes to a halt, making no other move than to stare up at him with a look that has Jaskier willing his knees not to shudder. 

His vast vocabulary has either fallen asleep at the wheel or more likely, given in to the ‘flight’ option of a flight or fight response and all he can do is stare silently back at Geralt. He isn’t entirely sure he trusts himself to speak anyway. Geralt, on the other hand, looks more like a child trying to sound out its first ever words as his jaw clenches, lips parting only to snap shut once more, as though he couldn’t quite decide what to say. Jaskier chews his lower lip, almost too hard…part of him wants to yell, part of him wants to simply push past Geralt and say nothing, and still some tormented part of him wants to shove Geralt against the railing and kiss him blind, and before he can entertain any of these thoughts, words are charging out of his mouth before he can stop them;  
  
“That fish-out-of-water look must be a hit with the ladies…” There was no mistaking the pain in his face now…and a part of Jaskier hates himself for fueling it, but a part of him hopes the words sting. Geralt opens his mouth once more;  
  
“Jaskier…” _Gods_ he loved the way his name sounds on the man’s lips…he could listen to it forever….  
  
“Save your pity for someone who needs it, Geralt…I’m late…” It was a pathetic answer and he fucking knew it, and he was pretty sure Geralt knew it too, but he hardly cares as he shoves roughly past him, taking the stairs two at a time until he reaches the bottom. More than this, he can’t handle an apology; for inevitably Geralt will chase it with the decision that he must honor his commitment to his raven-haired Rapunzel…declare that he’d made his choice and it wasn’t him. At least this way, Jaskier can indulge the small fantasy, however feeble, that Geralt might yet change his mind…and even though he knows it's weak and wretched, he isn’t willing to let it go just yet.  
  
***  
  
He catches himself in the mirror; Ciri says that looking good makes you feel better, so he’s donned a periwinkle blue linen button-up that brings out his eyes and a pair of close-fitting steel-grey jeans. He runs his fingers through his soft seal brown hair; it’s getting long now and it tumbles back across his left eye, but he doesn’t mind it. He exhales heavily and tries to force a passable smile onto his face before hitching his mandolin up and turning to leave. He strides past Valdo, who’s watching the digital read of the microwave tick down the time remaining on a cup of instant noodle soup with a little too much anticipation.  
  
“See you soon then? Or shall I leave you and Maruchan alone?” He cocks his head at the other man with a grin.  
  
“Don’t judge me…” Valdo says as the timer sounds and he pulls his staple of a college student diet out and begins attacking the contents with a fork. Jaskier snorts and rolls his eyes and leaves Valdo to his sordid love affair.  
  
The evening is warm and he’s thankful that the short-sleeved linen he’s wearing breathes well. He treks the all-too-familiar path to Fil’s bar and tries not to think about the last time he walked it; tries not to focus on the glaring empty space at his side or who he wishes would occupy it, tries not to let the lyrics of a cover of ‘Mr. Sandman’ sink too deep as they drift around a corner ahead of him. The musician playing it has a baby face that almost makes Jaskier ask when his curfew is. 

His voice is a bit pitchy, like it hasn’t had enough time to recover from the onslaught of puberty but it’s not unpleasant. He sings the lyrics through a mask of heart ache that doesn’t extend past face value. Jaskier can tell the youth lacks the experience to properly croon about true love…but for that matter, maybe Jaskier does too. He digs out a couple of bills and tosses them into the boy’s case with a wink before moving on toward Fil’s.  
  
He smiles as he ducks into a bar that’s already teeming with patrons and it’s a relief to fall back into his routine as he leans over the counter to shake Fil’s hand and a moment later the bar tender is reaching into his top shelf stock with a crooked grin.  
  
“My birthday’s not until next month, old friend…” Jaskier chuckles as Fil flourishes a bottle expertly between his hands and plunks two glasses on the bar top.  
  
“Does a man always need an excuse?” He winks as an amber nectar that’s easily worth more than Jaskier’s life flows in a perfect, elegant stream into a tumbler. He and Fil toast and he tilts the glass slowly, allowing a small amount to trickle back, coating his throat in a rich heat. It’s not the kind of liquor one simply disappears in a single swallow, and he intends to savor it fully. It’s heady and full-bodied and it burns slowly on his tongue and there’s an almost smoky, fruity finish to it, and it’s only when Fil whispers ‘that good, huh?’ that he realizes his eyes have been closed for the last thirty seconds. He comes to, tipping his glass toward Fil one more time with a thankful wink before making his way through the throng toward the backstage area.  
  
All things considered, he’s feeling pretty good by the time Fil wanders backstage, and he falls into step behind Ciri as they make their way on. Friends might come and go, lovers might wax and wane, but he would always have this; he could always rely on music to fill the chalice of his soul…to make him happy.  
  
Which is why he was _totally_ prepared, as the faces of the packed bar swim before him, to see Geralt; the very picture of rugged elegance, sitting like a pint-size mountain peak after a fresh fallen snow next to Valdo at a corner table. Jaskier feels his heart drop into his stomach and then his stomach bottom out completely as Geralt’s eyes lock on to his in the dim, and those golden pools are fucking _glowing_ and Jaskier doesn’t even try to stop himself from drowning. His eyes flicker to Valdo who is smiling wide enough to put a toad to shame, and before Jaskier’s brain can shift gears in a desperate attempt to catch up to what his eyes are seeing, Ciri’s fingers are tugging the sleeve of his shirt. Forcing a lid down over the literal volcano of emotions that threatens to crack his ribs, he slowly allowes the rest of the bar back into focus and raises his mandolin, not taking his eyes from Geralt, who’s mouth is slowly sliding into a languid smile as he raises a mug of ale to his lips. _Fuck_. 

He clears his throat, if only to make sure his vocal chords are still willing to make sound and turns to Ciri who's beaming at him. He nods once and they launch into the first set. Far from feeling timid or sounding croaky, a strange warmth slowly spreads from Jaskier’s chest that he is pretty sure has nothing to do with the whiskey. It radiates outward, coating his throat and seeping into his fingers; an electric energy that makes him feel high…makes him feel _invincible_. He sings the words from his heart; the walls he’s fortified over the last two weeks crumbling away as lyrics bleed from his lips in a flood.  
  
As they prepare to break, a new emotion seethes in his brain…a nervous fear. It’s been easy enough to level smoldering glances at Geralt across the bar as though their collective gazes have created a parallel existence of space and time where nothing’s changed and there’s only them, and the rest of the world melts away. It’s another thing entirely to try to organize the hopeless wreck of his brain into comprehensible sentences or to hold any hope that what he will say will be the _right_ thing to say. 

He throws a wave and a roguish wink into their audience and then turns to set his mandolin down, his brain feeling more than ever like wrung sponge. 

As he makes to turn around, any thought of introductions, feeble or otherwise are effectively evacuated as Geralt looms before him, a sea of distinguished angles, molten amber and soft lips that are curved in that irritatingly alluring crooked grin, and Jaskier has to quickly stuff his hands in his pockets to keep from plunging them into Geralt’s irresistible sliver tresses…and _tug_. But there’s reservation in the man’s stance and a wash of guilt shadows his face. Before Jaskier can say anything, Geralt is thrusting his phone screen at him; it’s open to Geralt’s calendar:  
  
**‘Jaskier: allowable distraction, 9 O’clock, Fil’s Bar’**  
  
Jaskier gulps, barely drawing breath…  
  
“What I need to know now…” Geralt begins in a low, husky voice that effectively drowns out every other sound in the room, “…is just how long you are planning on keeping a newly-single man in purgatory? Because I’d like to pencil that in too…just a ball-park figure will do…”  
  
And then he’s grabbed Geralt by the hand and led him backstage and has him shoved up against the rough mortar of the wall as his mouth attempts to devour every inch of skin he can reach; tongue pushing fiercely into his mouth, eliciting a string of low growls as Geralt arches into him and his hands fist into the back of his shirt. Jaskier clings on to the vast expanse of Geralt’s shoulders for dear life, breaking apart just long enough to draw a shuddering, desperate breath against his lips before laying siege to the soft, sweat moistened triangle of exposed flesh at Geralt’s collar. He nips a sharp trail of kisses over the crook of his neck, exhaling a soft whisper of his name into his ear before reclaiming his lips; softer and more sultry, his tongue teasing the edge of Geralt’s lower lip briefly before forcing himself to break away once more…he still had a set to finish after all and it was already going to take several minutes before the painful evidence of his arousal would sound a reluctant retreat. As though he could read Jaskier’s mind, Geralt’s eyes flicker tantalizingly southward before returning to his face, a wicked smile twisting his kiss-swollen lips.  
  
“…Is this a dream?...” Jaskier says, coloring slightly with the realization that he’s spoken aloud, and only jumps slightly as one of Geralts hands, that had been massaging peaceful circles into Jaskier’s hips and not helping the situation in his pants _at all_ , drifts to his thigh and pinches him… _hard_.  
  
“Ouch! You hateful asshole, what was _that_ for?”  
  
“It’s not a dream.” Geralt replies simply, fingers massaging away a pain that’s already fading, but Jaskier secretly hopes there’ll be a mark tomorrow.  
  
“So, you’re really--?”  
  
“Yes.” Geralt pulls him closer, golden gaze swallowing him whole.  
  
“…And this is really…” Gods he was babbling…  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“…and you’ve waited to tell me until _now_ because?” Geralt rolled his eyes at that.  
  
“Fuck, Jaskier…I tried to tell you sooner…but you were so…”  
  
“… _angry_ …” Jaskier finishes, his eyes sweeping the floor beneath his feet sullenly. Geralt exhales heavily.  
  
“… _that_ and your insistent dedication to have the last word on me…so I gave you space…” Jaskier mentally berates himself for several seconds, cursing his overzealous mouth to Melitele herself, but Geralt senses this too and suddenly Jaskier’s jaw is being cupped in his strong hand.  
  
“It’s okay…I fucked up…you had every right to be angry.” He rumbles, soothing Jaskier’s cheek with his thumb, “Besides…” Geralt scrunches his brow rather adorably, clearly working to dredge up some long buried piece of wisdom, “…ah, fuck, how does it go… ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’…?” He mutters a bit uncertainly, as though it’s been a while since he’s used words like this. And then Jaskier is melting more effectively than a pat of butter in a hot skillet as Geralt’s mouth reclaims his own. They stay like that for a long time, fingers fluttering over the thin veneer of clothing with a barely contained yearning to know what lays beneath. Geralt’s soft breaths and low growls send shivers up his spine. 

Jaskier really _does_ have to break away then, because he really _does_ have to walk back out on stage sometime tonight. He clings to Geralt’s fingers as he steps back, striking a bargain with his blood cells that if they return to his brain now, he’ll provide Geralt, fit to model for a Calvin Klein underwear ad, as a reward for their services. Geralt jerks his head toward the stage entrance where Jaskier barely glimpses a red-cheeked Ciri, ducking back out of sight a little too quickly with a high-pitched squeak. He shakes his head with a chuckle, walking slowly toward the stairs that lead on, his fingers still laced in Geralt’s. He pauses, turning one more time to look down at the most beautiful man he’s ever seen…all his…he barely dares to _blink_ , lest the dream collapse.  
  
“Geralt…” He breathes in barely more than a whisper, “…why me?”  
  
Geralt’s eyes are almost unbearably soft with affection as he squeezes Jaskier’s fingers;  
  
“…because I came alive when you looked at me.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ride the bone roller coaster, WOOOOO!! I'm back from a little stay-cation visiting fam in Portlandia and created a Tumblr...O.O Come say Hi, I love chatting with like-minded folk
> 
> https://leviosally468.tumblr.com/

6\. Jaskier fumbles for his keys and stuffs them roughly into the lock as Geralt’s teeth nip at the skin of his neck, hot heavy breaths slithering under his collar and he curses his lame fingers _and_ Ciri for demanding that they end the night with a fiddle versus mandolin arrangement of ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia’  
  
“Allow me…” Geralt whisper growls into his ear, his hands gliding down Jaskier’s arms and claiming the keys from his fingers.  
  
Jaskier only groans a little…okay maybe _a lot_ as Geralt grinds his hips into his backside, fitting the key into the lock and clicking it over at long last. The sound is like that million dollar bell that goes off in gameshows, except instead of a million dollars, Jaskier’s prize is a tall, hunky knight-in-shining silver hair. They stumble into the hall and Jaskier shoves the door closed with his foot. His hands are twisting into the front of Geralt’s shirt even as he’s shucking off his jacket, tugging his face down for a kiss, and really at this point it’s just a fancy word for ‘tongue-wrestling’. His blood cells have already re-started the party in his pants even before Geralt’s hand slides between his thighs, cupping him roughly.  
  
“Mmmmmffff _Gods_ , Geralt…” He whines into Geralt’s lips as they curve into a grin.  
  
All of the frustrated energy he’s had pent up over the last several weeks breaks loose in a flood as a white-hot fire courses through his veins. Without breaking the kiss, he nudges Geralt backward through the doorway to his bedroom until they collapse in a heap onto the bed. Geralt’s arms wrap hungrily around his back and he can feel the slide of Geralt’s cock against his own in a desperate attempt to find friction. Geralt’s hands slide over the groove of his waist to tug insistently at the hem of his shirt and he sits up, perched in a straddle across Geralt’s hips and a teasing smile spreads on his face as his fingers slowly flick open his buttons in a slow reveal. Geralt’s golden gaze, hazy with lust, tracks in his movements with an almost feral energy and Jaskier can feel his chest shudder as it rises and falls beneath him. Jaskier shrugs his shoulders slowly out of his shirt, flicking it into a corner as Geralt’s hips continue to undulate slowly upward, and Jaskier’s dick is fucking _pleading_ with him. His fingers attack the buttons of Geralt’s shirt, and the black of the fabric is a stark contrast to Geralt’s creamy skin, stretched like silk over the hard, un-yielding sinew of his musculature. Jaskier’s breath hitches in his throat as the material slithers away, revealing the smooth curves of his chest. 

Jaskier’s cheeks flush as he takes in the veritable feast spread before him and he swoops down, licking a hot trail from Geralt’s navel up to his nipple and he flicks over it gently with his tongue. He is graced with a sharp inhale and a growled ‘fuck’ and all he can focus on after that is how to pull more delicious filthy noises from Geralt. He slides his hand into the crook of Geralt’s thigh and palms over the rather sizeable bulge of his cock. A sharp hiss, and Geralt’s hand shoots to his, almost staying his movements but a moment later Jaskier thinks he must’ve imagined it when Geralt arches up into his hand with a stuttering breath.  
  
And then it occurs to him…he mentally berates himself for not having even _considered_ it…he slides his hand back into safer territory upon Geralt’s thigh, eyes drifting to the man’s face; the face of a child who can see the cookie jar, but seems unsure about how to go about getting it. Jaskier strives valiantly to dredge an expression of concerned sensitivity out of the cesspool of Geralt-themed pornography that is running his brain, and his cock groans almost _audibly_.  
  
“Geralt, are you sure this is okay?” he whispers tentatively, and wonders that his anemic mind is able to formulate comprehensible words at all, “…it’s just that…you seem a little unsure…like maybe you’ve never…” Geralt’s eyes squeeze together and it’s all the more affirmation Jaskier needs.  
  
“Oh….Oh bloody hell, you’ve never—”  
  
“ _Fuck_ …”  
  
“— _ed_ a man before?” Jaskier provides in a bemused tone. Geralt’s arms tumble exasperatedly to his sides, contrary to the smile Jaskier can feel splitting his own face. Perhaps his birthday really had come early this year… “Oh, Oh, ho, ho Geralt…my sweet, _chaste_ little flower…” Geralt rolls his eyes magnificently, body shrinking away from Jaskier as though it might merge right into the bed clothes.  
  
“If there’s about to be a lecture with bar graphs, pie charts or other visual aids, I’ll see myself out…” Geralt says flatly and Jaskier throws back his head and barks a laugh before snuggling down against Geralt’s ample chest, propping his chin on an elbow;  
  
“No…it’s just…I would have never guessed…” If it were possible to be _more_ attracted to Geralt, Jaskier was there for it. Geralt puffed a sigh, warm hands stroking idle lines into Jaskier’s back and making his skin prickle.  
  
“When you’re craving ice cream, it’s just… _easier_ to stick with your tried and true standby than risk being disappointed by other bolder flavors…no matter how appealing the… _packaging_ …”  
  
_‘So many puns…so many puns…steady, Jaskier…’_  
  
“Geralt,” Jaskier chokes out, swallowing thickly, “…all of the sudden I can’t decide if I’m hungry or horny…” 

A malicious smile is all the warning he gets;  
  
“I know what I’m hungry for…” Geralt rumbles, hands grasping Jaskier’s hips with a bruising strength and grinding him down over his still-hard cock. Jaskier’s head swims deliriously as a garble of incomprehensible noises slither from his lips. He shakes his head, _focus_ ;  
  
“…just so were clear, then…” Jaskier squeaks as Geralt’s lips ghost over the pulse point of his neck, “…if there’s anything you’re not ready for…” Geralt’s teeth are nipping at his ear and his self-control is packing its fucking bags...  
  
“…When a wolf corners its prey…does he save it for later?” Geralt croaks out, sucking Jaskier’s lip between his teeth before laying siege to his mouth in rough kiss. Jaskier groans into him as his cock twitches in another bid for freedom into the leg of his pants. Geralt clutches Jaskier to him and rolls them smoothly and as if he can read Jaskier’s thoughts, his fingers are grappling at his waistband, jerking his belt loose and thumbing open the buttons.  
  
“Tell me what you like…” Geralt growls into his shoulder, hand sliding down the front of his trousers, uncurling his length and grasping him firmly.  
  
“Fuhhh…. _HHUUUUUCK_ …”  
  
“…show me what I can do to you…” Jaskier’s hips buck needily into Geralt’s hand as a wave of euphoria whites out his thoughts, but he manages to reel one more in before giving over to just _feeling_ …the _here_ …the _now_ …  
  
“ _First_ …” Jaskier breathes, voice as flushed and sweaty as his brow as his hands fumble with the fastenings of Geralt’s own pants, “…how about I show you what you’ve been missing out on…”


End file.
